


Foresight

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's been away, and he doesn't do phone-sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> Established relationship fluffy (kind of?) pwp.

Steve doesn't _do_ phonesex, and Sam couldn't really blame him. It wasn't about shame – they both knew that – but about practicality. _In this day and age,_ Steve said sometimes, without a hint of irony, _there are better ways than tinny speakers to show that kind of thing. Plus you never know who's listening._

And even if it was some sort of leftover hangup, Sam didn't mind it. 

Because, sure, he might not get steamy what-are-you-wearing let-me-hear-you phonecalls, but he did get grammatically correct _“I can't wait to see you, Sam, you're all I've thought about all day. We're staying in when I get home, right?”_ texts, and the _“I don't feel like cooking, what's say we curl up on the couch with Chinese?”_ calls, and the _'Hey. I'm in a meeting and they think I'm taking notes. See you later.'_ emails that made him laugh to himself.

Steve will never be the guy who rings up mid jerk-off to groan _“I needed your voice, babe, I'm gonna-”_ down the line at him, and Sam's grateful for that. He had a couple of short-term things with guys who liked that, and there's never a good time to answer those calls when you're working at the VA. 

For Sam, phones are for vets who need an assist, not other-halves who'd like an _”assist_.” Steve's generally very good about that – usually texting, only calling if it's easier to say than to type. Asking what Sam wants picking up from the store, for example, or checking that Sam's awake and okay in time for work if one or other of them's had a bad night. Sometimes, and Sam could never blame him for finding comfort in something so simple, he'll get a call that's short and rushed – ten seconds at most, where Steve will say to him, _“on my way to debrief, you love me, right?”_ and Sam will say “yes” or “of course,” or “how could I not?” and Steve will answer, _“you too, sweetheart,”_ and hang up the phone. He says it's because he likes feeling like Sam is right there, likes speaking as though Sam's next to him all the time. 

If Sam happens to be on the line to someone else when Steve calls, Steve will leave a similarly brief message on Sam's voicemail, like _”On my way to briefing, text me, I love you,”_ before he hangs up. Sam always texts him as soon as he's picked up the message - Steve doesn't like to be by himself, to be away from Sam, and if he uses the ten seconds between official-rooms to dial a number and reassure himself that Sam's still alive, Sam isn't going to hold that against him. 

Once, Steve left him a message that asked if he liked his Christmas present, which had made all of Sam's blood gravitate downwards in a rush – Steve had splurged on a really stupidly nice pair of silk underwear for Sam, and then asked Sam to model them for him. And then he'd said “I lied; you in that underwear's _my_ present, _this_ is yours,”and spent the next _four hours_ torturing Sam with all the skills he'd picked up since they started sleeping together, plus a few he'd learned in other places – from massage all the way up to rimming in the slowest, most intensive round of foreplay Sam had ever had the good fortune to endure – and, oh yes, endure was the word. By the time they got around to the main event, at maybe midnight, Sam was all over the place. 

So Sam does his best to pick up the phone when Steve calls, not only because it's better for Steve but because Steve has an arsenal of innocuous-sounding one-liners that make Sam's day a little more difficult if he doesn't. 

But innocuous is the key - Steve doesn't usually do outright-sexy. He prefers to lower his voice and imply, and there's something undeniably attractive about that. Like his wearing skin-tight shorts to swim instead of skinny dipping, or letting his hand warm the dip at the base of Sam's spine instead of squeezing his ass.

Which is why it's a surprise when Steve's calls him after he's been away for three days. 

Three days sounds like nothing but is irritating for Sam – who's grown used to the night time company of a man who runs four times as hot as he does and is therefore _freezing_ when he's out of town. It's also almost agony for Steve – whose libido is not only fuelled by the fact that he's a male in his late twenties who's the pinnacle of physical perfection, but also by the fact that it's superpowered. Steve's desire for sex howls like a mad thing every time Sam isn't around (Sam considers this fair enough – Sam's the one who poked said libido while it was sleeping anyhow). 

So once Sam's home, which is by about five-thirty, and settled in to watch TV for fifteen minutes while the oven warms for food, he gets a phonecall from Steve, and picks up immediately, smiling at the caller ID before he's even heard Steve's voice.

“Hey,” he says.

Steve will be getting home tomorrow, and Sam can't wait. He's at the point where he spends most of his free time thinking about it.

 _“Hi,”_ Steve answers, a little out of breath, and Sam frowns a little as he focuses his gaze past the television.

“You okay?” he asks, and he can hear Steve chuckle on the other end of the line.

 _“Yeah,”_ Steve says, _“just been a long day today. What about you, you have a good one down at the VA today?”_ Steve's next breath catches in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “are you sure you're okay?”

Steve sighs hard through his nose, hums a positive response, and then coughs. _“Like I said, long day.”_

A horn honks in Steve's background, so loud that Sam hears a sympathy-echo in his other ear, and Steve hisses through his teeth.

“Still okay?” Sam asks, and Steve answers immediately.

 _“I am – not sure about the idiot in the Camaro,”_ he says. _“Promise me if you ever get a muscle car you'll avoid cutting up eighteen wheelers?”_

Sam shrugs to himself as Steve sighs through his nose again. “I'm good with the wings, baby,” he says. “Why do you sound like _me_ when we go running?”

Steve laughs this time, open-mouthed, though it dies away a moment later. _“I'm tired,”_ he says. _“Long day, long walk.”_

Another car passes, and another and, further down the street from him, a distant noise through the speaker, the horn honks again. Sam frowns and lifts his head a little, drawing back to look because he wonders if he has the phone on speaker by accident. He doesn't, and shakes his head. It doesn't matter what he thought he heard – Steve is speaking again.

 _“-me a favour, sweetheart?”_ he says, sounding pained and tired, and Sam nods though Steve can't see him. 

“Sure,” he says. “You name it, Steve, I got it.”

And Steve hums a soft sound of amusement, a kind of _oh, Sam, you saint,_ and says, _“I just got into Reagan.”_

Sam nearly swallows his tongue. “You're home?” he says, feeling a new kind of energy bleed down his spine, feeling himself grin. “What happened to getting back tomorrow?”

 _“We fin-ished ear-ly,_ ” Steve says, sing-songing it because he's Captain America and he can sing-song if he wants to. 

“Great,” Sam says, standing up to look for his keys. “That's great, Steve, I'll come get-”

 _“No, no,”_ Steve says, tired and probably achy, and he slides into the Brooklyn just a little so that it comes out _Naw, naw,_ as he breathes more heavily with each moment. _“Just take off your shirt.”_

Sam goes completely still in the middle of the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear. That makes absolutely no sense and Sam figures Steve probably isn't losing his mind, so what's the game?

“What?” he says eventually, and Steve says it again, as though it's obvious.

 _“Take off your shirt,”_ he insists, and Sam still doesn't do it. _“Are you doing it?”_

“No,” Sam says, and Steve's voice changes in an instant.

 _“Trust me,_ ” he says, his voice suddenly low and rough and now he sounds out of breath for a different reason.

Sam heaves a sigh in the middle of his kitchen and rolls his eyes as he shakes his head. “Fine,” he says, “fine, gimme a second, fine,” and he puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter – turns off the oven while he's there just in case there are further instructions – and then he unbuttons his button-down and tugs it off his shoulders. 

“Undershirt too?” he says.

 _“Undershirt too,”_ Steve confirms, his voice flat and tinny now, so Sam does. 

Then he folds both and puts them on the nearest chair.

“Now what?” he says to the small device on the counter, and Steve sighs on the other end of the line.

 _“Come open the door,”_ he says, and Sam turns his head to look as though he could see through the wood. 

Then he crosses the kitchen in two long strides and heads for the front door to yank it open as adrenalin warms his blood, resisting the urge to say “Really!?” 

And the wood swings inward, back out of the way. And there's Steve, black wheeled suitcase by his side, looking every inch as tired as he sounded on the telephone – hair a mess, skin just a little pale except for where it's slightly darker along his cheekbones – but with the smallest of smiles twisting his lips as he gazes up at Sam from the one-step down of the front of Sam's house.

“Did you walk?” Sam asks, and Steve blinks slowly before he nods.

“Yeah,” he sighs, holding up his phone so Sam can see him end the call.

Sam shakes his head, and he's about to say something about Steve's luggage or the phonecall when Steve ducks down to grab his own suitcase. Sam's seen that kind of determination in him before and takes a step or two backwards so he can let Steve in, and Steve takes the opportunity, surging forward and into the house.

He's barely knocked the door shut behind him with the kind of slam from such a small flick of his hand that both proves he's a supersoldier and ramps up the adrenalin in Sam's blood, before he drops the case and the phone and lunges forward and _kisses_ Sam, hunching over him as he pours his whole self into it, hands cradling Sam's head like he's afraid he won't stay still even as he backs Sam up against the wall.

Sam doesn't even know what to do with his hands it happens so fast, and he manages enough coherence to grab at Steve's shoulders as Steve crowds him up against the plaster before Steve moans into his mouth.

“Missed you,” he gasps against Sam's mouth in the split-second he takes to breathe, and then his hands are on Sam's waist – hot, dry skin on Sam's flanks – and his mouth is hot and wet against Sam's throat.

Sam gets one hand in Steve's hair, the other still on his shoulder, as Steve works his way down, hard and fast and unrelenting, the best kind of assault Sam can think of, and it makes his cock fill so fast the pleasant sting of it curls halfway down his thighs.

“Steve,” he says, just to say it, just to have the name on his lips.

And Steve hums around one of Sam's nipples before he gasps, _“Sam,”_ against Sam's stomach.

He drops onto his knees soon enough and tugs so hard at the button on Sam's trousers that Sam has to brace his shoulders against the wall as his hips cant forward with the movement, and Steve's got Sam's fly half open a second later, tugging the material down.

These are Sam's _good_ trousers, well-tailored, and he never thought that would be a problem until right now, when they start to dig in at the tops of his thighs. Steve grunts in irritation, presses his mouth to Sam's cock through his underwear as he fumbles with the zipper – he didn't get it down all the way the first time – and tugs it the rest of the way so the fabric goes slack. 

And then he shoves Sam's slacks down and lets them fall until they catch at his knees, drags Sam's underwear down a second later, cold air on hot, hard flesh, and gets them to maybe mid-thigh before he pulls back enough that Sam can see the irritation on his face. 

“Kidding me?” he mutters to himself, and with one good, determined tug, has everything down around Sam's ankles.

He grabs at Sam's thigh with one hand as he sucks two of the fingers of the other into his mouth, and hitches Sam's leg over his shoulder, Sam's foot coming free of all the fabric.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, and that's all the build-up Sam gets – Steve's mouth is on him a second later.

 _“Steve_ ,” Sam manages, face screwing up at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, and Steve's fingers, huge and wet with his own saliva, come up between his legs.

Steve swallows him right down and makes a long, low sound that rumbles up from his chest and snaps straight up Sam's spine, and Sam's fingers clench in his hair just as Steve's fingers start to rub circles against his perineum.

Sam feels his mouth fall open, hears the choked off noise he gives and plunges his other hand into Steve's hair, too, but it all comes second to the rush of want and need that override the notion that he was fully dressed less than a minute ago.

Steve doesn't hesitate, bobbing his head as he sucks _hard_ and Sam isn't going to last long like this, hands gripping Steve as Steve's fingers work slowly but inexorably back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam breathes, “yeah, Steve, come on...”

Steve doesn't breach him, breathing hard through his nose without letting up for a second, but those small circles are so much better now, over the tight ring of muscle as the head of Sam's cock hits the back of Steve's throat over and over, and Sam's pulling Steve towards him as the leg over Steve's shoulder curls involuntarily.

He still has his _socks_ on, for the love of God, and Steve curls his fingers just a little, so that they catch as he rubs his circles, so that Sam's muscles flutter and his cock twitches in Steve's mouth.

His other leg feels unstable, like his knee's going to give out, and he doesn't care at all because he knows that, even if it does, Steve isn't letting him go anywhere.

It's too much all at once, nought to one hundred miles an hour too fast, and Sam squirms against the wall as Steve makes that noise again, trying to get away just a little as the warning tension in his thighs and his stomach turns to heat-

“Steve,” he warns, one hand leaving go of Steve's hair to slap at the wall, “Steve, _Steve_ \- -!”

And he's coming so hard he can't keep his eyes open, can't make a sound, body curling forward over Steve – who's still going and keeps going, dragging the orgasm out of him, swallowing with every pulse. He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, and Sam winces, shakes his head, it's too much, he can't do this but it's _so good_.

“Steve,” he groans, flattening himself against the wall as best he can as his free hand scrabbles for purchase against the plaster, rim still fluttering against Steve's still-moving fingertips hard enough that he can feel his thighs protesting with every clench, cock throbbing with the force of it in the wet heat of Steve's mouth. 

His hips jerk forward just a little, head rolling forward and back again, and Steve finally begins to slow.

Sam tugs his hair to encourage him to stop, and Steve sinks forward so that Sam's as deep as he can get, Steve's nose pressed to Sam's stomach – which is no mean feat, though Sam does say so himself. And then he stills, breathing slowly and evenly through his nose. 

Sam can barely stay standing, feeling his body sag a little against the wall as he gasps for air, and Steve's fingers twitch against his rim as he holds Sam's softening cock in his mouth. Sam's sensitive enough that it makes him clench, makes him hiss through his teeth with his eyes shut tight, and Steve waits a good ten seconds or so before he does it again with the same result – he's doing it deliberately, of course he is.

And then he hums softly, long and low, and pulls back, licking his lips as Sam's cock comes free of them.

The air in here is damned cold on Sam's wet cock, makes him gasp, makes goosebumps rise all over him and he looks down, one hand in Steve's hair and the other pressed to the wall, but Steve – who sounds just as out of breath as Sam is – presses his face to Sam's hip, nuzzles the crease where thigh meets torso, and then looks up at Sam and smiles lazily, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Hi,” Steve answers, lips that are already always so red now bright and swollen.

“Your turn?” Sam asks, and Steve shrugs, rubs his cheek against Sam's thigh. 

“Missed you,” he says simply, and Sam nods.

“Yeah, I missed you too,” he says, chest still heaving, “you wanna tell me again or you wanna get on the couch?”

Steve's smile turns mischievous as he nods like a child at the offer of candy, and then somehow he's on his feet. He doesn't need his hands to stand up, doesn't need to brace himself on the floor. He just makes this gorgeous, graceful kind of rippling movement and then he ends up on his feet. Some day Sam will watch carefully as he does it. Today, Steve gets in his personal space immediately and kissing the living daylights out of him before Sam pulls away.

“Couch,” Sam says, and Steve worries his lower lip as his eyes go just a little darker, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, and hurries over to the couch.

Sam follows him pretty closely, stopping only to get his other foot out of the tangle of trousers and underwear.

Steve throws himself down on the couch and smiles up at Sam – who's doing his absolute best not to slip on the hardwood and fall. He's only wearing his socks now, and he feels like an idiot, but he can wait until he's managed to get Steve off before he deals with the socks – it's only fair. He doesn't want to make Steve wait at the best of times, let alone after a sudden and _fantastic_ blowjob.

Steve's smile widens a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Sam just gives him a look without glancing down. His socks, gray sneaker socks really, are the only thing he's wearing and it's evidently what's amusing Steve.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam tells him, and he comes to stand in front of Steve, is about to get on his knees in front of him when Steve holds his hands out to Sam, beckoning.

Sam goes without hesitation, one hand on the arm of the couch as he leans down, the other against Steve's shoulder, and Steve's hand is warm and dry against his side a moment later, Steve's other hand cupping the back of Sam's head. Steve kisses him soft and slow this time, stares up at him when Sam draws away with enough in his eyes to make Sam stay there, noses barely an inch apart, and smiles.

“Sam,” Steve says softly, his eyes sparkling (from what Sam can tell – obviously Steve is a little close for Sam's eyes to focus properly).

Sam only smiles back and kisses him again, hand stroking down off Steve's shoulder, over his chest to his stomach. They don't break apart when Sam slides his hand under the hem of Steve's shirt, and Steve only moves his body when Sam rucks the shirt up enough that the fabric becomes trapped between his body and the back of the couch, and then only moves it enough that Sam can get all the slack.

They do break for air then, but mainly so Sam can hook the hem and collar of Steve's tee over the back of Steve's neck to keep it out of the way.

This time, when they kiss and Sam's hand slides down the same path, it's skin to skin, and Steve hums against Sam's lips, scrapes his teeth over his lower lip when Sam draws away.

Sam looks down to open Steve's fly and tug the material open, rubs his fingers over Steve's cock where his underwear is stretched tight over it, and Steve looks down too, watching Sam follow the outline. He keeps his touch firm because he doesn't want to tease now – what he wants is to start low and turn it up as they go, and Steve's hips lift a little.

“Want me to get on down there?” Sam asks and, when he looks up, Steve's shaking his head slowly, lower lip still caught between his teeth, eyes fixed on Sam.

“Sit with me,” he whispers instead, and Sam raises one eyebrow.

“You want me to do it or...?” he asks, and Steve just stares up at him.

“Yeah, Sam,” he says, “yeah.”

Sam laughs softly, kisses him again, and pulls away to sit naked on his own couch, next to Steve.

Steve lifts both his arms immediately, slouched down enough in his seat that he can hang the crooks of his elbows right over the back of the couch. It'll keep his hands out of the way, will give him a better view, and Sam watches the taut lines of Steve's chest and stomach rise and fall under his hands. 

He starts with a long, slow stroke from Steve's throat right the way to his cock and almost all the way back again, except that he smooths his hand over Steve's pectorals this time.

Ah, Sam,” Steve says, back arching just a little, just enough, and Sam takes pity. 

“Poor babe,” he says softly, sucking a wet kiss into the center of Steve's torso, “you waitin' long?”

Steve doesn't need to answer, and so he doesn't bother, startlingly silent as Sam slides his hand into Steve's underwear and tugs his cock free.

It's a pretty thing, Sam always takes the time to notice. Thick and uncut and Steve's breathing hastens just a little at the touch of Sam's hand instead of his own, muscles in his stomach shaded beautifully by the late afternoon sun that spills in through the window.

“Sam,” Steve says, “Sam,” and Sam gets a nice firm grip and gets to work, hand moving slow and steady to jerk Steve off.

He knows half the reason to sit here instead of kneeling on the floor is so that Steve can see, so that Steve can watch the still-apparently-baffling sight of Sam's hand on his cock. When he glances up at Steve, Steve glances back, but he mainly just watches Sam's hand, Sam's fingers. 

When they first started, Sam figured Steve was looking down at himself, at his cock and the narcissistic novelty of getting pleasure through someone else. But Steve barely notices himself, watches Sam's fingers and Sam's hands and Sam's arms instead, lowering one hand off the back of the couch to stroke Sam's back.

“Ohh,” Steve says, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his mouth open and his chin against his chest to watch, a gorgeous flush coloring his collarbones and his throat.

Sam leans down to lick the head, suck a little, and Steve's back arches enough that his head tips back, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“Oooh,” Steve says, mouth a little 'o' and tension clear in his forehead as he hisses a breath in. “Oooh,” and Sam smiles as he pulls off, watches Steve's shoulders settle back down, watches the tension ease out of his chest and stomach as he opens his eyes and blinks slowly.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, and Steve just looks at him, smiling shyly even as he pants and nods. “Faster?”

Steve's hand stills for a moment on Sam's back, and then Steve lifts his chin a little in invitation and Sam leans over to kiss him. 

“Faster?” he says again when they part, voice low as Steve lifts his other hand from Sam's skin back to the back of the couch.

“Please, Sam,” he says, and Sam smiles, gets another kiss out of him, starts kissing him thoroughly and deeply and then tightens his grip and starts jerking his hand up and back and up and back, over and over and over as Steve moans into the kiss. 

Sam pulls away and sits up again, and Steve stares down at the blur of Sam's hand as he bites his lip, as he lets it go to grit his teeth, and each line and dip on his abdomen is clear and beautiful, the 'v' of his hips and groin absolutely perfect, soft, curled hair that's dark but not too dark lying fairly neatly against Steve's beautiful pale skin.

“Uhn, Sam,” Steve says, and his voice is different now, thicker, rougher, “yeah, yeah, _yeah_...”

Sam keeps going, as hard and fast as he can, and Steve's face us fairly set now, his mouth hanging open, his eyes almost closed, body twitching and shifting and, just as Sam's about to ask him if he's close, Steve says “stop, stop, Sam, stop,” and Sam does because he sounds serious.

With barely a break in pace, Steve replaces Sam's hand with his own and says “get up, Sam, stand- get where- stand here, come on-”

Sam stands up, watches some of the anxiety in Steve's expression melt away as he resumes his position, standing naked right in front of Steve while Steve jerks off in front of him.

And, for a moment or two, Steve's eyes roam over Sam's body, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the flatness of his stomach, the girth of his thighs.

And then Steve's making this beautiful half-stifled moan, a desperate sound that rises near the end each time and says, “Sam, oh, oh, Sam,” and comes all over own fist and his own chest and stomach, eyes open with his gaze fixed on Sam's the whole way through.

His hips jerk up and he slips a little further down in his seat with each shudder, and it's obvious he can barely keep his eyes open. Sam half wishes he'd got to make Steve come himself, but it's not about that, it's not about that for Steve. Staring at Sam as he jerks himself off is apparently a sexual highlight for him, and Sam is always flattered.

As soon as he's done moaning softly with each aftershock and his fingers go limp around his softening cock, as soon as Sam's sure that a distraction won't take anything from him, Sam leans down and kisses the gasps from Steve's mouth, kisses a track down his throat to his chest and uses his tongue in broad, sweeping strokes to clean Steve's torso up enough, pausing after cleaning a thick drop of it from Steve's sternum to suck at his nipple for a moment or two.

He comes back for another kiss when he's done, straddling Steve's lap to press himself closer, glad not only for the laundry life of Steve's tee that it was out of the way – skin to skin is so much better, feels so much more intimate. 

Steve holds Sam's head with his clean hand as they kiss, and when Sam draws away to speak, Steve nuzzles at his jaw and his throat for a moment or two before he settles his head back against the cushion and looks blearily up at Sam.

“Welcome home?” Sam asks, and Steve chuckles, nods as he closes his eyes and buries his face against Sam's skin, breathes deeply and holds Sam tight.


End file.
